


Denim And Leather

by VIII (Valkyrien)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Denim And Leather Brought Us All Together, Don't Go Being A Twat Now, Empty Petrol Stations Are Not Eerie When Full Of Metalheads Refuelling Post-Gig To Get Home, Everyone's A Freak The Question Is Are You A Benign Freak Or A Twat?, F/M, Gen, Heavy Metal Fate Will Sort The Rest, Manners And Rules And Being Who You Are, Manners Are Important, Not Even In The Middle Of The Night On The Motorway, Remember - Stand Up And Be Counted And Never Surrender, Rickeen Shipweek 2017, The Weird Liminal Space That Is An Empty Motorway Petrol Station In The Middle Of The Night, Then There's No More Joyful Enthusiastic Place, This Entire Thing Is My Tribute To Saxon And Their Tireless Efforts To Bring The Heavy Metal Thunder, Thoughts On Crowdsurfing Stated Within Do Not Necessarily Reflect The Views Of Management
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 00:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12545116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkyrien/pseuds/VIII
Summary: When you're not used to being happy, you have to wring as much joy as you can from the things you love. When you're not used to being liked, you have to work hard to believe in it when it seems to be happening to you.It's not easy, but giving up isnotHeavy fucking Metal. And you are.





	Denim And Leather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FrozenSnares](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenSnares/gifts).



 

 

 

   Shireen _loves_ music.

 

 

   She loves _concerts_.

 

 

   Here, in this environment, amidst this writhing morass of assorted humanity, she can be anonymous and part of a group all at once.

 

 

   Here, everyone is too focused on their experience to notice or care that even among hundreds who make it their business to stick out, she sticks out.

 

 

   It's beautiful. It's transportive. It's one of the only settings where she feels truly appreciated and truly participant in a group of likeminded others.

 

 

   Not only that, but her involvement, her participation is tangible, undeniable, inescapably real and present.

 

 

   Her parents have never been demonstrative - hardly anyone in her life touches her willingly and regularly. In this setting, she is surrounded on all sides by passionate, positive enjoyment - pressing in on her, bearing her forward.

 

 

   No one here is shrinking away from her, flinching from her touch. She can exchange fleeting, ecstatic smiles with those immediately around her and see them return the gesture, totally genuine, too drunk or blinded by hair - hers or their own or that of any number of others around them - or just short-lived to dwell on what makes her different and even despised elsewhere.

 

 

   This is her birthday treat to herself and she is loving every second, from being dropped off by her father (who disapproves of everything about this exercise, every single delighted person here, the people delighting them with their music, and Shireen's desire to share both) to the moment she is in now, swallowed by the crowd and an equal part of a good thing.

 

 

   Her only complaint really is that she had a great position at the barrier front and centre because she got here so early she was one of the first inside, and some crowd-surfing knob-wipe has put her a line back where she can hardly see a thing because she's a short-arse and when she ducked to let the security lads drag the crowd-surfer over the barrier, she ended up being displaced when the line closed again over her, and apparently the tall metalheads are out in force tonight as well and have all made their way to the very front, which is a tad inconsiderate.

 

 

   It's not an event-ruining issue - she's been to shows where she couldn't see anything except the back patches on the battle jackets in front of her she was that far from the stage, and no amount of jumping would have done the business, so this is fine, second place isn't so bad - but what really gets to her is when only a short while after the crowd-surfer from before cost her the barrier position, the same bastard - and his ugly trainers - nearly lands on her head coming in and down from behind her where she hadn't noticed him being moved towards the front to be dispatched, and she has to duck quickly to avoid being brained by his feet.

 

 

   She's too short to really help push the idiot upwards so he can be handed over the barrier to security again, and that means the daft bugger's ugly trainers end up kicking square and hard into the back of the person in front of Shireen, and most of his bulk ends up awkwardly suspended between the person right _behind_ her who's trying to get rid of him, the person right _beside_ her who's staggering under the uneven weight and trying to get away from it, and Shireen's shoulders as she also tries to wiggle out from underneath the flailing twunt-bag who is quite a lot bigger than her and whom she hasn't a hope in hell of helping to propel past the front guard of headbanging giants without getting crushed or injured in the attempt.

 

 

   She's not very tall, actually below average height, which hampers her here, but she _is_ extremely angry now, because crowd-surfing is dangerous, pointless, and achieves nothing except endangering other concert-goers and heightening insurance-premiums for venues which is helping to drive up the cost of tickets and make life more difficult for touring bands, not to mention being just a hugely disrespectful and selfish way of pissing on everyone else's experience by making it all about whatever brainless tit is doing it when it should be about enjoying the gig, and this is the _same_ bastard from before, apparently having learned _nothing_ , choosing to once again spoil things for others like an absolute _wanker_ , and forcing her to bend double under his struggling weight as he seems unable to understand why he's not being held aloft properly anymore.

 

 

   What he _does_ seem to cotton on to in short order, however, is that he's on top of a struggling _girl_ , and apparently to his way of thinking that's a fine reason to cop a feel while he's already so fully committed to being a bastard of the first water, because there is no way that single insinuating hand making a targeted grab for her chest with _that_ much purpose is any kind of _accident_ , not at _these_ angles, and Shireen loses her temper.

 

 

   Usually, this sort of crowd is a great place to be, a safe place - there are people here with their young children, wearing adorable brightly-coloured ear-protectors and massive grins because it's a school night and it's late but they're clearly out as a family to have a good time - and it _is_ rare for this kind of thing to occur, but there's _always_ some chancing arse-trumpet like this lowering the tone and fucking it all up for everyone else, and it's just not bloody on. It can't be _tolerated_.

 

 

   “Get _off!_ ” she screeches, grabbing his belt and shirt and shoving as she twists out from under him, only enraged further when her hair gets pulled sharply in the escape, twisted by his now-empty groping hand being dislodged, and once she's upright again and he's still mostly on top of her, she elbows him in the ribs uncaring of the jar to her own bones as they strike his, howling,

 

 

   “ _Selfish shit-faced scum!_ ”

 

 

   Shireen is angry with him for being a disgusting piece of crap, angry with the staff for letting crowd-surfers like this back into the crowd to have another go when they've proven they can't handle the responsibility of shared experience which means _you don't try and fucking take anything away from the person next to you by wrecking it for them on purpose or endangering them needlessly through actions they've been given no opportunity to decline active participation in_ , and angry with herself for getting this worked up.

 

 

   She isn't here to release aggression - although some people probably are and that's totally valid as long as they don't take it out on anyone else like _this_ rank sod seems to feel entitled doing - she's here to enjoy herself, she repeats internally, but the idiot rights himself properly, squinting at her and making to shove her back like he has any fucking right to try and turn this into some kind of squabble when _he's_ the one recklessly disregarding the enjoyment rights and safety of everyone here by being an utter cock.

 

 

   That kind of twattery is not punk rock and it sure as fuck is _not_ heavy _fucking_ metal, and _that's_ what Shireen's here to see.

 

 

   She is _not_ here for _this_.

 

 

   She only gets as far as kneeing him in the balls before the absurdly tall person in front of her who got kicked in the back by this pillock has turned around and grabbed him, pulling him through the gap in the line and tipping him over the barrier in one, apparently shouting something to the security chappy who takes the idiot off his hands and looks grim and determined, which gives Shireen no small amount of pleasure to see since that might _actually_ mean the toe-rag won't be allowed back into the crowd to keep buggering it up for everyone else.

 

 

   She doesn't expect this very tall person to turn back around to her, bend down a bit, and shout in somehow concerned tones that translate very well even with all the conflicting volume,

 

 

   “ ** _Y'alright?_** ” so it takes a moment for her to process it and her smile at having the crowd-surfing toss-pot removed fades into confusion before she grasps what she's being asked and she smiles again, nodding.

 

 

   “ ** _Thanks!_** ” she shouts back, and he grins at her to show she's been understood, then glances back to where his mates are once more banging their heads over the barrier, looks back down at her again, and shouts,

 

 

   “ ** _Can you see?_** ”

 

 

   She can't _really_ \- the way he's twisted around and leant in to address her she can sort of see _past_ him, but not _that_ well, and once he's turned back around she won't be able to seen anything except his back and hair, but she's uncomfortable admitting that, the result of years of a smouldering inferiority complex manifesting in a certain touchiness about the limitations of her stature - but he pre-empts any admission on her part by offering in a yell, bent a bit closer to her ear, his frankly majestic russet-tinged curls brushing her temple,

 

 

   “ ** _Come up by us!_** ”

 

 

   She's so stunned at being asked - given that she doesn't know him and the group of rather large people he's colonised the front line with and who are obviously his friends and that she's not so un-self conscious now that she's being focused on like this not to be aware that even with her hair plastered to her face she's obviously _herself_ still and that's not usually someone who gets offers like this from people who look like _this_ lad even if he _is_ just trying to be nice - that she doesn't have an answer, but the shift of the crowd as the next song begins decides it for both of them and the kind-hearted lad with the pretty green eyes and the fabulous hair sweeps her 'round before she knows what's what and then she's pushed up against the barrier in front of him, his mates either side of her seemingly blind to the manoeuvre pulled by their mate or just uncaring whilst in the throes of their own ecstatic experience, and her view from before as well as her hope in humanity is restored just like that.

 

 

   She hadn't expected to get either one back, so it's a bit overwhelming to have it all happen in mere seconds, because that's all it took, the whole production, and now here she is.

 

 

   Belatedly, she tries to twist up and thank him, but her voice gets lost in the guitars now being played _right_ into their upturned faces and he just looks down at her and shakes his head, laughing it off.

 

 

   Shireen takes a moment to be impressed by the gesture and then to feel badly that he won't be able to cut loose as enthusiastically as his friends windmilling their hair either side of them, but he's so much taller than her that with his hands resting on the barrier and her leaning over it, she can headbang to her heart's content and he can too above her because they're in synch, all of them, to the rhythm of the music they all know and love, so there is no problem and no one has to miss out on any part of it.

 

 

   Shireen hasn't smiled so much in a very, very long time, her heart soaring and her ribs pushed into the cold metal between her and the short distance between stage and crowd, so happy she can't contain it, laughing and singing along and feeling happy and at home in herself and her surroundings in a way she feels so infrequently that she's not used to the fullness of it.

 

 

   Everything is so _much_ and so _good_ that once she realises she's feeling something _else_ she's not used to, she doesn't know how long that's been the case, and so when they reach a slower song on the set-list after the very high-energy start that's taken maybe twenty-five minutes all told, she isn't really sure whether her curly-haired benefactor's pelvis has been pressed up against her back quite like _this_ the whole time since he put her in front of him or whether it's been quite this _obvious_ , but now that she's noticed it, it looms large in the dusty attic of her mind where everything that isn't the music is lodged and awaiting her more concentrated attention.

 

 

   The way they're stood, with his hands either side of her on the barrier she's leaning against and over, it probably _wasn't_ this noticeable just how close they are before, when they were both angled to headbang - what with him being so tall - and anyway the frantic motion of the crowd heaving in waves behind them probably did its part to keep them all too focused on the ebb and flow of everyone for there to be anything _to_ notice in the way that movement kept everyone clashing together, but now the song's changed and slower, everyone around them is mostly just leaning in en masse, into the music, less jumping and clashing and more a kind of undulating grind forwards.

 

 

   It means her very tall new friend is mostly just resting the very _insistent_ lines of his lower extremities against Shireen's back and hips and sort of hunched over her from the waist up as he braces his arms against the hundreds of people behind him pressing forward, and he and Shireen are pushed and ground together by everyone else around them so that Shireen's suddenly weirdly aware of how intimately _close_ they really are, and how much of that she can feel.

 

 

   She's not squeamish about proximity - even if she wasn't basically starved for even _casual_ touch in the everyday, she's not silly enough to think she could go to a gig like this and not have to touch people. There's no way to avoid it unless you manage to find a tight corner to hide in or there's a gallery that's open to sitting and not so crowded because people would rather be on the floor and be part of things. She's not fussy about gigs in general like that; she loves them just as much for the feeling of closely taking part in something as she does for the musical experience itself, and she knows that going to them means you come home a bit battered and bruised and reeking of other people's effluence and sweat and sometimes whatever they've been drinking. That's all fine.

 

 

   She objects only to the _touching_ element when it's things like that arse-wipe from before trying it on because he thinks he can get away with it, because _that_ sort of behaviour is _never_ acceptable _regardless_ of venue - trying to grope someone against their will or at least without getting prior consent from the gropee is _never_ okay. Just like she's fine with crowdsurfing at venues where there are no signs asking people not to do it or it's at shows where the bands are known to encourage it and it _isn't_ the kind of show where people often bring their _kids_ meaning there are going to be a lot of _smaller_ people in the audience who probably won't see a _grown man_ coming at them from behind before he's landed on and _hurt_ them because they're not tall or strong enough to hold him up and they weren't prepared to try.

 

 

   Basically, she knows what she's in for with this sort of thing and she only objects when it doesn't follow the accepted rules and it might injure people who are not there for that possibility, because heavy metal doesn't follow _the rules_ , that's true, and it's part of why she loves it.

 

 

   It's why it feels so much like liberation after her overly-strict upbringing stifling her at every turn and always emphasising the need for _propriety_ and _obedience_ , but this scene _is_ still a community thing and it comes with its own limited set of rules and the first and most _important_ of those is to not be a fucking _twat_ to other people just because you _can_ because that makes you no better than so many _other_ entitled bastards who think it's okay to piss on others from a height because _they_ can, and no one wants to be part of _that_ group, particularly not people who stick out since that often means having been pissed on _an awful lot_ by that sort of twat, and that _matters_ to Shireen. Not being an arse just because you can _is_ important, and a rock 'n roll lifestyle is _not_ synonymous with crapping on others.

 

 

   So mental tangent aside, it's not the touching that's registering with her as out of the ordinary - in fact the proximity is _so_ ordinary and expected in this setting it's taken her half an hour to realise what does seem out of the ordinary about it, and then once she's realised what it is, she's embarrassed to have dwelled on it at all.

 

 

   Both because she's slightly ashamed that it took her this long to recognise the sensation of an impressive erection pushed against her back and made very noticeable between her and the body to which it belongs, because that just strikes her as a bit sad, and because it makes her feel slightly ridiculous to be making so much of that in her head when it's such a pedestrian thing.

 

 

   It's _obviously_ got nothing to do with _her_ \- this is an emotionally and physically charged experience, and even if it wasn't she has it on authority from all her cousins and several of her male acquaintances that todgers react to the most inane stimuli at the drop of a hat and sometimes for no apparent reason at all - and anyway, she's admittedly only rarely had occasion to have one in _any_ state pushed against her like this, at least as far as she's been aware of it happening in any kind of _purposeful_ way, so she might well be _completely_ wrong and just be feeling something this lad's got in one of the approximately fifty pockets of his black cargo trousers.

 

 

   It's more _likely_ to be that, anyway, his phone or something, she rationalises, so there's absolutely _no_ reason to obsess, and even if it _is_ his erection, it's not _her_ business and nothing to be embarrassed about on either of their parts.

 

 

   If it is, it's nothing to do with her. It's not like he's drawing her attention to it actively, or doing anything at all to indicate he's aware of it or that it's _intentional_ in any way - he's not touching her except to be leaned against her, which is beyond his control anyway, and even in that she can feel and see in the tension in his arms and lower body that he's planted himself fairly deliberately so as to give her as much room as he can despite the insistent crush of all the people behind him, so it's not a creep move or anything.

 

 

   If he really _does_ have an erection, she feels sort of sorry for him. It's probably not comfortable; she can't imagine it would be under these circumstances, and anyway, it's not something she has a right to draw attention to as long as he doesn't. It's not an issue or anything she's discomfited by because it's _nothing_ to do with her - for all _she_ knows she's been sandwiched between dozens of awkward anonymous clothed erections over the years at gigs and never known because it happened in the squish and squash of moshpits and barrier-pushes where anything could be anything.

 

 

   This is only odd and noticeable because she's not used to standing _with_ someone at a show like this, with someone at her back _properly_ , actually aware of her in the space and making an effort to include her and help her stay where she is, and so it's different. He's obviously shielding her from the press of all those other bodies, doing it on purpose so she can stand here and be able to see - that's the intentional act at work here, and it's not as easy as it sounds, and she's grateful for it.

 

 

   She's not going to obsess over incidentals to that which probably aren't even what she thinks they might be and definitely have nothing to do with her presence even if they are what she thinks they might be, because it's pathetic to get wound up over something like that when she knows for a fact it can't be something that's a direct result of her personally specifically at all, and anyway it's a phenomenon that's as fickle and easily brought-about as eddies in water and often just as difficult to control.

 

 

   She's not going to obsess like a fifteen-year old sharing gossip about some poor bloke getting a stiffy in P.E, all hormones and derision and giggling curiosity tempered with not a little relish that someone else is getting it in the neck and being made fun of for once. That would be embarrassing and undignified.

 

 

   She's also not going to obsess like the slightly sad, touch-starved, perennially-awkward minger she is like there's any chance this frankly _gorgeous_ person would even _consider_ having to do with _her_ in that way. _He's_ obviously _not_ a desperate chancing pillock unlike that crowdsurfing twatbag of earlier, trying it on just because it's there, so there's no way, and she's not pathetic enough to pursue the thought of what if - it's not a thing that happens to her, not with this calibre of person, so she's not even going to go there. Not even mentally. That would be mortifying, and anyway she doesn't like the idea of how the scenario casts him as an object to be lusted after. That's not who she is and she won't do a human being who's shown himself to be nothing but polite and considerate that much of a disservice by indulging in stupid daydreams about how gratifying it'd be to know he was at all hot under the collar to have her pressed against him like this. It's absurd and demeaning to think it and it does neither of them any credit.

 

 

   Determined to put all these pointless musings clogging her mind and keeping her from immersing herself fully in her birthday treat the way she wants to, she chances a look up at him and tells herself she won't do it again until the gig's over so she can thank him properly for being so nice, that she just wants a quick peek to make sure she's right and there's no hint of weirdness even though she does feel badly for suspecting him of any when there's been no real reason to.

 

 

   It's a mistake.

 

 

   He's not looking at her at _all_ \- totally fixated on the stage and the music, looking enraptured and engaged and thrilled by what he's seeing and hearing, not a hint in his face that he has even a _single_ thought for her other than to continue to carve out this tiny space for her in front of him so she won't be squashed, which seems to have at least become an unconscious effort more than anything else even if it wasn't to begin with before he got used to doing it enough that he could re-focus on the music, which is after all probably what he's _here_ for.

 

 

   Just like it's what _she's_ here for. Not to lust after or speculate wildly about nice lads who're kind enough to do her diminutive ugly arse a good turn in a tight spot so she can get the most out of her birthday treat. Which she isn't doing even despite his kindness, because she's using all this energy to pointlessly assume all sorts of absurd things about him, and getting rather stupidly disappointed that he's not even glancing down at her.

 

 

   But then, why should he? This is a beautiful song, one of her favourites, and he's perfectly entitled to just stand here and drink it in and sway to it and enjoy the moment. Just like she should be doing instead of craning her neck up to peer at him through all the hair and the glare of stage lights refracting off studs and spikes and hairclips and shining leather around them.

 

 

   Suddenly, she does feel sad and pathetic. Alone, even though for the first time ever she's sort of sharing this experience with someone, who sort of has their arms around her.

 

 

   Except it _is_ only _sort of_ , and it just hurts an exhausted, gnarled old part of her that she usually tries to ignore, because she's twenty-four now, and she feels ancient and bitter and lonely, because she wants more than she has, and it's out of her reach.

 

 

   This lad's here with mates, it's clear they're a group, and two of them seem to be a couple, stood with just a single person between them and Shireen to the left, in almost the same position she is with her benefactor, except the young man of _that_ pairing actually _does_ have his arms _around_ the young woman he's standing behind and pressing into the barrier _with purpose_ as they smile into each other's eyes and crane their necks towards each other.

 

 

   It makes Shireen's situation seem like a hollow mockery. The whole thing makes her feel small and weary and deflated. Suddenly, she doesn't want to be here. Where before this felt like a space where she could be a part of things, now it's just like everywhere else, and she's _not_ really part of what's going on - she's just detached and alone and awkward and weird, and confronted with all of that and how lonely and unwanted she really is.

 

 

   There's no escaping it unless she just clambers over the barrier and casts herself upon the dubious mercy of the security staff, and she paid to be here, has been looking forward to this gig, to doing something nice for herself.

 

 

   She doesn't want to make herself an _actual_ pathetic _spectacle_ in a fruitless attempt to avoid her own depression flaring up, because it'll only follow her home anyway, and she's being picked up by Davos when this is done, and he lives even further away than she does so perhaps he's already left home to make it here in time, but he definitely won't be able to get here any faster if she leaves now and calls him and says she wants to go home sooner, so there's no point, she'd just have to stand around _outside_ and wait _anyway_ , that'd be silly and wasteful, she might as well just try and push through the sensation of a rotten egg of unhappiness breaking inside her skull and oozing its vile contents all over her brain - maybe if she stays put she can shake it off or ignore it and enjoy herself again and feel less _ridiculous_ -

 

 

   She realises she's completely folded over herself over the barrier and sort of hanging off it like a wet blanket of misery when the lad shielding her raises one hand to her shoulder and pulls her up a bit, leaning down to yell,

 

 

   “ ** _You okay?_** ” in her ear like he cares, and Shireen unfurls and takes a deep breath and pastes on a smile and forces herself to look back and up at him and nod with false cheer, insisting loudly and brightly,

 

 

   “ ** _I'm fine!_** ”

 

 

  He lets both the issue and her shoulder go easily, with a pleasant, encouraging grin, and then refocuses on the stage, putting his hand back on the barrier next to hers, and Shireen makes a decision.

 

 

   She will be silly and pathetic and embarrassing for _just_ this short window of time, for her birthday treat, and pretend she is a part of _this_ \- this group of friends he's here with, this boy's life - and that she belongs and she's wanted here by someone.

 

 

   She'll let herself daydream that, _just_ for the next hour or so until the gig ends, and then she'll stop, and thank him for being nice, and wish him a pleasant journey home, and then she'll leave and she won't feel bad for indulging a harmless, childish fantasy of not being herself for a change but a _different_ Shireen with _proper_ friends who share her interests and likes and _want_ to do things like this _with_ her, and she'll keep it _completely_ above board and _not_ dwell on how handsome he is or what may or may not be in his pockets. She'll just let herself imagine she's here as part of this group, sharing something amazing with friends. That's all. Just for the duration of this gig, and then she'll never think like that again. That can't hurt.

 

 

   _It's perfectly innocent and natural to want to be wanted_ , she keeps telling herself, repeating her old doctor's words to herself over and over as she works on her breathing to settle her thoughts. _There's nothing wrong with feeling your feelings._

 

 

   Shireen has a lot of feelings she doesn't usually let herself feel, but it's more difficult to try and feel something she _does_ want to than it is to push away things she _doesn't_ , even when she's working to.

 

 

   The changing of the song helps.

 

 

   Suddenly, boots are stomping again, bodies surging forth - the energy's up, not just hers but the room's, and she can feel the drumline thrum under her skin and in the metal under her hands, the anthemic nature of the music raising her spirits, and that makes it easy to slip into the dream - she's shouting the lyrics just the same as her new 'friend' is over her shoulder, they're grinning through their hair at each other on the downswing, banging their heads in synch, like it was planned.

 

 

   The anthem becomes a pounding, slow-paced, heavy grind of a thing, slick with meaning and laden with force, and she finds herself swaying perfectly in time with him, and she wonders whether perhaps he's musical like she is, maybe plays in a band or something, because his timing is just like hers and they're throwing their heads back at the same time and stomping forward the same like it's been rehearsed ahead of time, but she's just doing what feels right to her, what seems to follow the music, and so she thinks he must be too. He's probably not following _her_ , anyway, that'd be a real effort.

 

 

   The dirgey drive of this one becomes a soaring classic she knows they've all been waiting for, and then a fast-paced crowd-pleasing favourite she adores, and then another classic, and singing along with abandon, she realises her feet are jumping and her hands are held high, and she really is enjoying it the way she wanted to. It feels like victory, and her smile is the only thing that hurts, that and the lights in her eyes.

 

 

   Everything else - bruised heart and bruised body, those won't hurt until she wakes up later.

 

 

   _Later_ increasingly feels like it's going to be _much later_ , but too soon they're all roaring truthfully and joyously that,

 

 

   “ ** _DENIM AND LEATHER BROUGHT US ALL TOGETHER - IT WAS YOU THAT SET THE SPIRIT FREE!_** ”

 

 

   And that's the end of that.

 

 

   The lights change to standard, illuminating the venue at large and dimming off the stage, and the last squeal of guitars fades into the faint ringing in her ears as her heart rate comes back down to normal slowly and the pressure of proximity eases off her back and she remembers her deal with herself.

 

 

   Her new 'friend' takes his hands off the barrier as soon as they're not under pressure from behind anymore, stepping back to give her room, grinning down at her and around at his _real_ friends, the one on the left slapping him on the back hard and whooping, the couple Shireen noticed earlier bouncing on their toes and stretching out now that they have the space for it, sharing a quick kiss.

 

 

   The crowd is beginning to move in a confused and somewhat staggering flood towards the bogs, bar, cloakroom, and doors, and Shireen shrinks back a little bit, turned around but still gripping the bars of the barrier with her fingers behind her back to ground herself, not sure how to interrupt the already-flowing conversation on how much everyone liked the setlist and whether there's anything any one of the group's members felt was left out even though it was, Shireen sees by the numbers glowing from the giant digital screen clock on the wall, a two-hour set, and it's making her a bit nervous because she doesn't want to seem like she's lingering like a weirdo when she's not really here with them, but she can't leave without saying thanks for how nice he was to her, so that leaves her just where she is, awkward and getting more so.

 

 

   Two of the lads - one with the most fantastic glittering silver-blonde hair Shireen's ever seen in real life and which going by the rest of his colouring looks _real_ , jammy sod - exchange back-slaps and sideways hugs with the others and then announce they're off to the loos and they'll see the others later by the car, and that provides a sort of break in the banter, disrupts the energetic flow of the group enough that she feels confident stepping forwards a bit, but that draws undue attention to her and leads to the silver-haired lad noticing her, nodding at her with a sudden, blinding smile, and addressing her briefly, gesturing upwards at his own face with a sweeping gesture, then pointing at hers, and saying, in an obvious if unfathomable compliment,

 

 

   “Oh, hey - _brutal!_ ”

 

 

   Shireen blinks, almost missing him throwing her the horns and a wink, and then he and the other one, a stocky youth who was practically _anonymous_ next to him, are off, and her new friend and all the _others_ are now _looking_ at her.

 

 

   “Um - I just - wanted to say thanks,” she gets out quickly, desperate not to prolong this or make it weird, trying not to let on that she feels totally wrong-footed by the way the lad with the unfairly lovely hair seemed _actually favourably impressed by her face_ and that she's already frantically rationalising it internally, that maybe it's just the way her makeup's probably smeared now, that maybe that just looks cool or something - it's not likely but it's _more_ likely than him actually meaning to compliment the face _under_ the paint - and working hard not to hide behind her own hair,

 

 

   “For bringing me up so I could see, that was really decent of you - I hope you lot have a good trip home!”

 

 

   “Cheers, no problem,” replies Shireen's curly-haired temporary friend, looking a little surprised and sounding slightly breathless even through his infectious grin, glancing around at the remaining others and following it on with,

 

 

   “Happy to help - sorry for not seeing you sooner! Y' weren't hurt by that twunt landing on you, were you?”

 

 

   Shireen shakes her head, the genuine interest and concern on his bright features stumping her a bit, and the solidly-built young man who's part of the obvious couple shakes his head too, spitting,

 

 

   “Feckin' dope-head crowdsurfers - there's feckin' _kids_ here...” in a thickly derisive rumble, and the young woman he's got his arm around still nods agreement with him.

 

 

   “Yeah, good on you f' not taking any shit there,” she remarks to Shireen,

 

 

   “This isn't the right kind of show for that nonsense, you know? 's just bloody selfish! They shouldn't really be let back in when they pull that crap.”

 

 

   “She got 'im right in the knackers,” Shireen's benefactor informs them, sounding sort of smugly proud and surprising her because she didn't know he saw that and it all happened so quickly anyway, adding to Shireen herself,

 

 

   “Good for you! I'm Rickon, by the way,” and Shireen nods dumbly, trying to keep up, stumbling over her own lips as she replies,

 

 

   “Shireen, nice meeting you. Thanks again.”

 

 

   “You're welcome; anytime!” he gushes, seeming _genuinely_ thrilled to be speaking to her, to have helped out, and she feels newly awful about suspecting him of some sort of ulterior motive earlier even briefly, and ruthlessly quashes the little answering thrill in her that wobbles and wibbles at how open and happy he seems talking to her, because obviously he's still just keyed up from the music, they all are, but he's really focused on her and it's just nice, it's just nice to not be skulking out of here on her tod to find somewhere out of the way to wait for her ride but to instead be actually exchanging pleasantries with people who don't seem to mind her, and to compound that, he seems to remember some of the social manners of this sort of exchange, and points to the young woman who apparently agrees with Shireen's standpoint on crowdsurfing at this sort of gig, introducing her,

 

 

   “This is Alys, she's my...” and then he trails off, turning to her for clarification, asking,

 

 

   “My what, exactly, again?” and this Alys shrugs under what appears to be her young man's heavy arm over her shoulders, which are bony and thin but set square like she's not a person to be trifled with, and offers,

 

 

   “A sort of cousin? A billion times removed. We'd have naught to do with each other if not for you knowing Sigorn from elsewhere,” and Rickon nods and points to the man Alys is clearly with, emphasising for Shireen's benefit,

 

 

   “That's Sigorn, Alys' husband,” and Sigorn nods politely, cracking a smile as Shireen waves her fingers shyly in greeting and acknowledgement, and Rickon moves on to,

 

 

   “And this is Ygritte, my sort-of half-brother Jon's missus,” jerking his thumb at the slightly-older looking woman stood to Shireen's left like she has been all night almost, Shireen realises, her hair fiery and her nose snub and little arrows tattooed liberally up her forearms, and she interjects,

 

 

   “Not his _proper_ missus, actually, we're not _wed_ , as it happens, not that you'd notice,” and Shireen nods, overwhelmed, and waves at her too, and Rickon beams.

 

 

   Apparently, he has a few _sort-ofs_ in his life, too. They're just better, nicer, realer ones than any of hers, and she's not surprised. He just seems like one of those likable people you meet, joyous and brimming over with good will and good intent. People like that, especially when they're absolutely stunning in that rather cheeky semi-accessible sort of way, they always have lots of people around them, most of whom are just as nice. That's just how it works.

 

 

   Next to this lot, Shireen's even more the ugly duckling than usual, except she's not going to blossom into a beautiful aggressive swan no one would dream of messing with. It's not like she can peel off her face and suddenly turn into a gorgeous girl with no emotional baggage and no weird body issues that can't be hidden, like in the films when the main character takes off her glasses and everyone's supposed to be surprised that she was pretty all along as though minimal makeup and carefully-sloppy hairstyles up until that point were _hiding_ anything.

 

 

   If Shireen peels off her face she could maybe star in a black metal video, and that's about it, but probably not really anyway since there tends to be a preference even there for the somewhat leggier, more top-heavy type of lady, and she is neither of those things.

 

 

   “Well, I'm off after a pint for the road - I'll see if I can find the lads,” Ygritte says casually, smiling kindly at Shireen and telling her,

 

 

   “Nice meeting you, get home safe!”

 

 

   She stalks off towards the bar confidently, like someone used to taking up space, taking names, and kicking arses, and then Alys plucks Sigorn's arm off her shoulders and takes his hand instead, announcing,

 

 

   “We'll go and get my stuff from the cloakroom - did you have anything checked?” and when Rickon shakes his head she carries on,

 

 

   “Right then, see you in the car,” then flicks a smile at Shireen and adds,

 

 

   “Pleasure, see you at the next gig, maybe!”

 

 

   Sigorn waves briefly before submitting without further comment to his wife's dragging him off to collect her belongings, and that leaves Shireen on her own with Rickon, who's still glowing with excitement and looks oddly anticipatory, like there are more good things to come in his immediate future and he's looking forward to them. Shireen doesn't know what that's like, really, but it looks like a lot of fun.

 

 

   “So are you - ” he starts, some question on his mind, but he gets no further, because someone just to the right of Shireen and behind her says,

 

 

   “There y'are our lad - how's all?” and Shireen jumps at the depth and closeness of it, swinging around to see who's talking and having to look up what feels like half a mile at a massive chap she recognises as one of the security staff, the one Rickon handed the crowdsurfer off to.

 

 

   “Toregg, hey,” Rickon greets him, sounding ever so slightly put out for some reason even though he clearly is on good terms with this impressive figure, as Shireen takes a step to the side so as not to have them talking over her and to be able to look at them both without hurting her neck,

 

 

   “Everything's grand, thanks, and yourself?”

 

 

   “Can't complain. Who's this then?” Toregg-the-giant asks with interest, looking down at Shireen and smiling - she doesn't think she's been smiled at this much or this genuinely by this many people in months, if ever, and certainly not when she hasn't been the butt of the joke that's caused the smiles, and it's a mite disconcerting, but she does her best to smile back and says,

 

 

   “I'm Shireen, nice to meet you,” and for some reason that makes this Toregg chuckle, which makes her tense in case she is about to become the butt of the joke, which is really what she's been unconsciously waiting for all night, for the other shoe to drop finally, but he just tells Rickon,

 

 

   “Don' let Munda get wind, she'll want t' feed this one!” and then he tips his head very politely to Shireen and says,

 

 

   “'s a pleasure, miss - y' 'ave a good show then?” and Shireen once more feels almost weirdly cheated out of the negativity she was expecting to come her way, so it comes out a bit stilted when she replies,

 

 

   “Yes, thank you - I could have done with fewer crowdsurfers landing on my head, but you handled it in the end, so thank you for that, it's much appreciated.”

 

 

   “Right y'are,” Toregg says affably, then shakes his head and with regret adds,

 

 

   “'s a shame they feel the need, really - 's no place for it, this. Sorry we couldn' keep 'em out. Y' weren' hurt, were ye?”

 

 

   Uncomfortable with all this focus and concern, Shireen hugs herself around the middle and tries to sound confident when she tells him,

 

 

   “I'm fine, really. I just wasn't expecting it. The groping was the worst of it, but I took care of that, and then you two got him out of the crowd, so that was good...”

 

 

   By the sharpening of the eyes on her, she discerns that in her nervousness at being the centre of attention she may have said too much.

 

 

   “ _He what?_ ” Rickon snaps, unexpected enough that she shrinks back a little, and Toregg in comparison is almost soothingly stoic despite serving up the open offer and threat,

 

 

   “If'n he laid hand on you an' 'e's still about, we can give 'im what for if we see 'im.”

 

 

   “No need, really - I'm fine, it wasn't - wasn't that bad, anyway, and I handled it - ” Shireen rushes to explain, flapping her hands in front of her, wanting anything but to have a fuss made of any kind, and Rickon peers down at her incisively, stating;

 

 

   “That's why you kneed him in the nadgers.”

 

 

   “Did ye?” Toregg asks, sounding gruffly pleased, before Shireen can respond,

 

 

   “Good girl. Don' take any shit.”

 

 

   “Thanks, I try not to,” she aims for casual, like it's true and she doesn't usually bite back the bile and the disappointment whenever life hands her another set of lemons or some tosser who feels like pelting them at her from up close, and Rickon hisses in a rather vicious tone of voice,

 

 

   “What a fucking grot!”

 

 

   “Says she's fine, she got hers in - don' harp on an' embarrass the girl,” Toregg advises sagely, and Rickon looks instantly repentant and almost shy, smile off-kilter as he ducks his head and says very quickly,

 

 

   “No, right, 'course, obviously - ” and then he sheepishly offers,

 

 

   “Sorry Shireen...” but she's not given a chance to reply, as Toregg reaches over and claps Rickon on the shoulder, wishing him,

 

 

   “'Ave a good 'un, love t' everyone, drive safe, yeah?” and then turns to Shireen and sticks his hand out to shake, adding,

 

 

   “An' same t' you, missy, get home safely an' we hope t' see you again another time, take care,” and Shireen shakes the proffered hand and then watches the massive man amble off in a studiously un-purposeful way, clearly keeping a weather-eye on stragglers and anyone too drunk to find their way to the doors in a straight line, leaving her and Rickon basically on their own together.

 

 

   She has no idea what to say, if anything, so he ends up going first.

 

 

   “I didn't know the grotty sod'd tried it on, or I'd not have been s' kind tipping him over the barrier, but as long as you're alright, I s'pose all's well,” he partially mumbles, looking regretful and wistful at the missed opportunity for a bit of righteous violence, and then he perks up and asks,

 

 

   “But anyway - are you straight off home, or hanging about?”

 

 

   “Er - I'm being collected,” Shireen replies honestly, unthinkingly forthright because she doesn't understand what's going on here and why everyone is being so nice to her and acting like she matters, it is starting to really mess with her head and she doesn't want to have a panic attack over something so stupid here in sight of God and hundreds of people she doesn't know from Adam - _and_ Rickon, _and_ probably his mates, too, she can't handle the mortification, she just _can't_ \- and Rickon's sparkle dims a bit.

 

 

   “Oh - oh, right, okay then,” he says, shuffling his boots for a moment, looking away and then blurting out,

 

 

   “I'm not asking to be a bother or anything - I'll let you alone if I'm bashing your ear an' you'd rather I not - it just seemed like you're not here with anyone, and it'd be fine if you wanted to hang about with us for a bit - I mean, it'd be nice. You seem fun. But you probably want to get off home.”

 

 

   Shireen has no idea what's going _on_ anymore.

 

 

   Maybe ' _come up by us_ ' actually meant ' _come and enter a parallel dimension where people talk to and seem to like you even though they have no earthly reason to and seem like quality people who could do better_ '. Maybe she's somehow drunk.

 

 

   “That's... really nice of you, really,” she manages, probably looking a right plonker gaping up at his _improbably_ earnest expression, watching him bite his lip and deflate when she goes on,

 

 

   “Really - but I'm being collected, and I can't stay, we've got a long way back and he drove up specially as a favour to my dad, so it's not really fair on him to ask him to wait for me, he's probably just around the corner by now or in the parking lot, I haven't checked my phone but he said he'd text, so - ”

 

 

   The more she babbles the stupider she feels and the redder her face is likely getting under all her patchy, sweat-runnelled makeup but it's like her filter's been removed and she doesn't know when to shut herself up anymore even though he obviously doesn't care about Davos or her personal arrangements or any of that nonsense, he's just being nice, so when he overrides her with a kind of painful lack of insistence, practically bending over backwards to assure her,

 

 

   “No, obviously, it's fine, I understand, don't worry about it, obviously you've got plans, you've got to get off home, it's a weeknight - ” she just feels a complete idiot, as well as ridiculous for wanting to believe so badly that he actually was keen to keep her about and include her further in whatever he and his friends are planning to do next, and for wanting to believe that his slightly frantic over-done reassurances that he's not taking her declining to join them badly is because he really did want to rather than because he's secretly relieved she turned down the offer he probably only made to be nice because he seems to do a lot of things to be nice and sometimes that means letting yourself in for things - and people - you don't really want much or _anything_ to do with, but it would have been so _good_ to _believe_ -

 

 

   “But um, this was really fun, so if you don't mind - in case we end up at any other gigs at the same time, d' you want my number?” he asks, fidgeting and rummaging in one of his many pockets, leaving her gawking like a fool as he excuses himself with,

 

 

   “Sorry - can never remember it, so it's saved in contacts as ' _you plonker_ ' - ” and then once he's retrieved his phone and she realises that what's going on is that an absurdly sweet and apparently genuinely nice lad is asking if she'd maybe like to own his number in the event they end up going to a similar event to this one in future and she feels like maybe not standing alone, he seems to feel he's been a bit presumptuous, screws up his face and says,

 

 

   “I mean, you probably _have_ people to gig with, but just in case?” and then he sighs and goes on,

 

 

   “I'm doing this wrong, aren't I? I usually come to these things on my own or with that lot and they're mostly sort of family, I'm not really used to this - ” and then his eyes widen with sudden disgust and she braces herself hard for whatever horrible thing's probably _finally_ coming her way, but he just asks like it's only now occurred to him,

 

 

   “Aw, _bugger_ \- I'm not being really creepy and pushy, am I?” he takes a step back and hunches over a bit like he's only just noticed how relatively titchy she is and is trying to make up for it, and it stuns a,

 

 

   “No - I'd have just left if you were, you're fine,” out of her, and he seems enormously relieved, so much so he looks quite funny, and the whole thing makes her sure she is misunderstanding something fundamental to this entire interaction, because people are not usually this concerned about whether or not she is comfortable around them. In fact, usually people are quite happy to make her uncomfortable one way or the other. This is the weirdest experience she's had in a good while and she's totally at sea in it.

 

 

   “Oh, good, I thought maybe I was botching this horribly and coming off a complete bastard, what with everything earlier and now all this to top it...” he trails off and makes an apologetic face at her, and she blinks.

 

 

   “You were really nice to me earlier. I thanked you for it,” she reminds him, and he nods and agrees,

 

 

   “You did, yeah, but it strikes me I didn't really give you that much of a choice, I mean, in how I did it? I didn't ask you if you were okay being stood like that with me, I could have just given up my spot, I didn't have to do it like that so you had to put up with me,” he rationalises, and Shireen shakes her head firmly.

 

 

   “You did give up your spot though, and then you were really nice making sure I was alright still and keeping people off me, you didn't have to do that,” she says clearly, wanting to be sure he doesn't feel badly for any of it, because she's now firmly convinced she really did do him a horrible disservice earlier thinking he might have some hidden agenda and she sees now that there's no way he could have or he wouldn't be fretting like this over having not gotten her consent to stand behind her like that, which is just silly to worry about at a gig like this where everyone's all over everyone and there's no room for anything else, so _she_ doesn't leave any room for _arguing_ when she finishes,

 

 

   “I'd rather have had you behind me than so many other people here - you did ask if I was okay with it and I said yes, so we're fine,” and then she throws caution to the wind and tries to be funny even though she knows it's not her strong suit and most people don't like it when she gives it a go,

 

 

   “Anyway, you're so tall, you'd catch any crowdsurfers before they had a chance to kick me in the head, so that's a definite bonus in my book!”

 

 

   He laughs. Like she's actually amusing at all.

 

 

   He's not real, she doesn't think.

 

 

   “Happy to help!” he grins down at her, delighted and open, and she does her best to smile back like she's not seriously worried she did get bashed in the head earlier and that's why she's now embroiled in this surreal situation with this simply lovely person.

 

 

   “So do you?” he asks, and she finds she doesn't know what he's referring to, having been caught in trying to commit his face to memory in case she wakes up tomorrow and it turns out this part of the evening was the result of a concussion she didn't pay attention to sustaining and she's actually conjured all this from faces and names she's seen on the telly maybe or something without realising, so her only response is an inelegant,

 

 

   “Do I what?” and he looks hopeful and honest and _nice_ and says,

 

 

   “Do you maybe want my number in case we end up at the same thing again sometime, so we could meet up? I don't know how often you get out for gigs, but it could happen, and it's always nice to see people you've seen before at these things, you know? It just makes it better somehow...”

 

 

   She knows what he means - it's like going to these things and seeing parents there with their kids who are clearly thrilled to be there and rock out. It brings home the sense of community, makes it feel like they're really all in it together. It's what makes her love it, the sense of belonging. It's pure.

 

 

   It convinces her, even though he didn't put it in quite those terms.

 

 

   “Yes, alright,” she agrees, smiling uncertainly, encouraged by his grinning as she gets her phone out,

 

 

   “Let me just - ”

 

 

   Her phone rings before she can even unlock it, Davos' name and number flashing on the screen, and she feels instantly guilty - he's probably outside waiting, worried about her, and she picks up without another thought, blurting out,

 

 

   “Oh my god, Davos, I'm so sorry - I'll be right out, I didn't mean to make you wait, I know it's really late, and - ” Rickon's looking at her and biting his lip again, eyebrow raised in question, and Shireen can feel her eyes prickle a bit, even as Davos' comforting voice wraps her brain in a soothing rumble of,

 

 

   “ _Now, now, then, don't ye worry none, lovey, you just take your time, I'm right outside the doors now, I just wanted to check in and make sure you were ready, everything's alright,_ ” but the damage is done now, so she assures him in a rush,

 

 

   “I'll be right out!” and then hangs up, putting her phone away and telling Rickon as quickly and honestly as she can,

 

 

   “Thank you so much for being so kind earlier, and for just now, you and your friends seem really lovely and this was such fun, I hope you all have a good trip home!”

 

 

   “You're welcome, thank _you_ , this _was_ great, it was great meeting you,” Rickon replies earnestly, frowning slightly, sounding a bit put off, and she knew, she _knew_ she'd dragged this out too long even though she'd promised herself she wouldn't - she has to go, it's awkward now and Davos is waiting and she can't make him wait, it's a weeknight he might have work tomorrow she didn't ask her dad earlier but he probably does and he'll want more than two hours' sleep for that and it's such a long drive back to his and she's staying with him and Marya tonight and she _knows_ that's an imposition even though they've told her a million times it's no bother.

 

 

   She shakes Rickon by the hand, fumbling a bit because he's actually holding his own phone still, and then she thanks him again, and runs for the doors.

 

 

   She's all the way out before she remembers she was going to get his number so they could maybe meet up again at some other gig in the future, but she can't go back now, and anyway it's not like that would have happened, is it? It's not like she would ever have had the courage to write to him and ask if he was going to the same thing she was going to if she got tickets to something else at some point, is it? And even if she had, he probably wouldn't have been going, or wouldn't want to actually meet up if he was. He was just being nice. He was so _nice_ , he and his friends, all of them, but she can't go back in now, and even if she could she'd never be able to find them, the place is still teeming and she had to fight through a crowd just to get outside -

 

 

   “Shireen! Over here, pet!” Davos calls, making her head swing blindly towards the sound, but her eyes are tear-clogged with panic and regret and general upset and the cold air after the hot press of inside, so she just has to trust that it's his arms around her and leading her away from the mass of people just outside the door laughing and yelling and lighting cigarettes now they're not restricted by the smoking ban of indoors anymore, relying on his familiar bulk and scent to guide her, because she can't see anything.

 

 

   She's also probably getting gross, smeared makeup all over his coat, so she starts scrubbing at her face with her sleeve until he presses a hanky into her hand and she wipes at her eyes until she can look up into his kindly, smiling face asking her,

 

 

   “Good show?”

 

 

   She nods and tries to smile back, watery and unconvincing, and he doesn't ask any more questions, just bundles her up in the jacket he brought from the car - and probably from home, it's the one he keeps at his and Marya's, an emergency jacket for her just in case they need to get her or she comes to stay with them -

 

 

   It makes her tear up again, so she hides it in the hanky. Once in the car, which is only parked a blessedly short distance from the venue, on the far side of the adjoining parking lot, Davos smiles again and asks,

 

 

   “Tired? There's a nice fresh bottle of water in the glovie for you, and a choccie - I know it's late but we've a drive home and I didn't know how long it'd been since you've had a bite, so you just manage that as y' like.”

 

 

   “Thank you, Davos,” she mumbles, feeling drained, reaching for the water and drinking most of it in one go and then picking at the chocolate bar, nibbling listlessly. It might take the edge off the residual feeling of guilt and having done everything wrong, the fear that she might have run off without Rickon's number when he might have actually really meant her to have and use it and it might have meant the beginning of a new era for her where she could maybe have real friends, even if only gigging friends whom she could meet at gigs and stand with. It'd still be more than she could have hoped for before, and now she's missed her chance.

 

 

   If it was even real. If _he_ was even real.

 

 

   Luckily Davos doesn't expect conversation out of her - usually after a concert she's euphoric and wants to bask in the afterglow, and sometimes she's talkative and wants to gush about some specific part of it, but more often she's just silent and so Davos turns on the radio to soft classical and just trundles them out of the parking lot steadily, it taking a while for them to get out since there are so many cars needing to leave that there are attendants presiding over who gets to go and when, and then they hit the m-way fairly soon thereafter, and the lights just flowing over them in the dark lets Shireen sit back and just dwell on her own pointless unhappiness.

 

 

   It wasn't real, so there is no point being sad about it. She should be pleased she went to such a great gig. She _is_ pleased with that. This other business isn't really worth obsessing over. It _isn't_.

 

 

   So she won't.

 

 

   She tells herself this until Davos breaks his silence with an apologetic,

 

 

   “I'm sorry pet, I've just got to stop off at the next services - it was a long drive up, y' see, and I had a coffee before going to keep meself awake, so I've just got t' be excused and refuel for the trip home, if that's alright.”

 

 

   “No, it's fine, of course,” she hastens to assure him, dragging herself from her mental bog of misery to reply and hoping she doesn't sound too sullen and pathetic, and he shoots her a smile the way he always has, indulgent and understanding and kind, and refocuses on the road.

 

 

   They pull into a petrol station about ten minutes later, and Davos offers to leave her in the car, but Shireen would rather be inside in the fluorescent weirdness of the pretty well empty place and browse the crisps and chocolates while Davos does his thing than stay out here in the car alone. It's a bit too eerie outside with no one else about and she doesn't think it'll be good for her state of mind to stay out here.

 

 

   She offers to get Davos a new coffee while he does his business, and follows him inside. The bored-looking attendant behind the till perks up considerably when she orders the coffee and plunks a bag of crisps on the counter and asks for a doughnut from the display to go with it all, eyeing her with some suspicion and fishing,

 

 

   “So - coming from anywhere special?”

 

 

   “Concert, just down the way,” Shireen supplies, and,

 

 

   “Thanks,” when the attendant gives her the crisps and doughnut in a bag and an empty paper cup for the coffee machine in the corner, ignoring the way the woman seems to approve slightly more of Shireen's appearance at hearing where she's just been, and going to the machine to make the coffee.

 

 

   It's not an intuitive machine, but she's got the hang of it and pressed all the right buttons and is waiting for the cup to fill when there's suddenly a lot of activity by the door, and outside, and before she knows it, the place is full of people, who judging by their voices and appearances have all come from the same place she has and are also refuelling for the road home.

 

 

   She glances sideways at the queue that's forming behind her for the coffee machine, exchanging a smile with a girl who throws her the horns and grins to acknowledge she realises Shireen's just had the same experience she has, and then Shireen carefully affixes the lid to Davos' coffee, and makes her way slowly towards the door again, now okay with waiting in the car since the petrol station is absolutely alive with people filling up their cars and bellies and emptying their bladders and cars in various places, some more appropriate than others, seeing as a fair few of these folk are clearly a bit pissed.

 

 

   It's fine though. Shireen's glad everyone had fun. So did she, really. Really. Best gig in a long time. Well worth going, well worth it as a birthday treat, the band are absolute legends -

 

 

   “Shireen, isn't it? Rickon, isn't that your Shireen?” someone shouts, sounding just tickled, and Shireen freezes where she was skirting the main refuelling area to return to Davos' car, clutching the coffee to her chest and turning around slowly but not so much so that she misses Rickon shoving the lad with the beautiful silver-blonde hair from earlier and snarling,

 

 

   “Shut up and git tae fuck, you!” clearly not phasing the other youth at all judging by the peals of laughter he emits as he staggers to one side and waves at Shireen, calling,

 

 

   “It _is_ you - hello again!” and Shireen waves back timidly, not sure what the protocol is.

 

 

   “Go and talk to her, then - I'm having a pasty,” his silver-haired friend says blithely, strolling into the station flanked by Alys who also waves at Shireen, and the stout lad from earlier, and leaving Rickon on his own, where he seems to sulk briefly before bounding up to Shireen and then just standing in front of her, eyes gleaming.

 

 

   “Shireen, hey...” he mumbles,

 

 

   “Fancy meeting you here - I swear we didn't follow you...”

 

 

   It's a half-hearted joke and she appreciates the effort and the reassurance but she's preoccupied with noticing that he was wearing an old Iron Maiden shirt earlier and now he's proudly decked out in a Saxon tee from tonight's gig, obviously just bought since it's got this tour's name on it.

 

 

   Shireen has birthday money in her pocket she'd been meaning to spend on that exact style of shirt as a memento. She didn't get to buy one because she was talking to Rickon. Who is real. And whom she then ran away from to go home with Davos. Whose coffee is actually burning her hands and chest through the cardboard cup. She forgot one of those little matching cardboard sleeves.

 

 

   She is a complete mess.

 

 

   Rickon's looking at her and smiling.

 

 

   She's not a half-hearted joke, she's a really good one, she thinks. Really convincing.

 

 

   “So er - I know you had to leave earlier so we didn't really get to, but could we maybe exchange numbers now then?” Rickon asks her with restrained excitement, adding with gesturing hands between them,

 

 

   “I mean, it just seems like a really cool coincidence us meeting here of all places again now, and I was really disappointed you left because your ride got here and I understand you didn't want to leave them waiting and if you just really didn't want to exchange numbers just tell me and I'll get out of your hair and wish you a nice life and mean it truly, but yeah, isn't this kind of cool? Like a weird sign or something!”

 

 

   He laughs, and it doesn't matter if he never uses her number or ever replies if she ever gets up the courage to use his, she wants his number as a memento of tonight, of feeling good things even if they didn't last, so she puts Davos' coffee in the crook of her arm and fishes out her phone and hands it over quickly and says,

 

 

   “I'm really sorry, I panicked and forgot what I was doing earlier, I felt guilty, but I'd love your number, tonight was really fun, thanks!”

 

 

   He beams and she can just about stave off the disappointment she's already sort of feeling knowing they really will never speak again because even though all this has been emotional and confusing for her, he does seem to be a genuinely decent chap and he has been really nice to her, and she doesn't know many people she can say that of.

 

 

   He puts his number in her phone after getting out his own so he can check that it's right, and then hands hers back and grins and says,

 

 

   “Done! Now I won't have to follow you down the motorway and track you to petrol stations to talk to you again!”

 

 

   And she lets herself smile and joke back,

 

 

   “You said you didn't do that!” and he laughs with her and shakes his head and admits,

 

 

   “No, I really didn't - so it must be Heavy Metal Fate or something instead, and that's way cooler than stalking any day!”

 

 

   “What's this?” Davos asks amiably, coming up behind Rickon and making him turn around,

 

 

   “Who's stalking someone?”

 

 

   “No one, Davos,” Shireen says quickly, then holds out the cup,

 

 

   “I got you a coffee - and there's crisps and a doughnut if you want them,” and Davos takes the cup and the bag and puts them in the same hand and then leans in to place the other on Shireen's head and leans in to kiss her forehead.

 

 

   “You're a good girl, our Shireen,” he praises her, then faces Rickon with an easy smile and asks,

 

 

   “Who's your friend then?”

 

 

   “Rickon Stark,” Rickon says promptly, putting out his hand and shaking Davos' firmly, and Davos nods and asks,

 

 

   “Stark, eh? Right then, you've a ways home, lad,” and Rickon nods.

 

 

   “It's not so bad - they're dropping me off to stay the night with my sister and her young man, only half the way I'd have otherwise,” he says with a shrug, and Davos nods again and say firmly but kindly,

 

 

   “Aye, well we've a way's home back t' Rainwood - two hours or so, and I've t' get our Shireen back before dawn or my Marya'll fret herself t' the bone, so you 'ave a safe journey home lad, and we'll be on our way.”

 

 

   “And you,” Rickon replies politely, and then smiles endearingly at Shireen, and wishes her,

 

 

   “Have a good trip, Shireen!” and unnecessarily promises,

 

 

   “Speak soon!” and then he races off into the petrol station leaving Davos and Shireen to get back in the car and get going.

 

 

   Davos is halfway done with his coffee and has made inroads in the doughnut as Shireen pensively crunches crisps and ponders whether Rickon really did mean to practically promise they'd speak - probably not, he didn't bind himself really, it's just one of those things people say, she'll be happy just to have his number as a sort of keepsake, a happy memory - when he remarks,

 

 

   “Nice boy, that.”

 

 

   She hums agreement, not looking up from her crisp, and Davos continues, overly casual,

 

 

   “Seemed keen t' have t' do with you.”

 

 

   Her contemplative bubble breaks.

 

 

   “Don't tease, it's cruel,” she snaps, crisp breaking between her fingers, and Davos immediately holds up a placating doughnut, soothing her,

 

 

   “Alright now, no need t' bite me head off, lovey, I meant nowt ill by it - I wasn' teasing you, anyways, just making an observation. Maybe I got it wrong. I'm an old duffer an' them lights were awfully bright, I might have misread. Don't take on.”

 

 

   “I'm sorry for snapping,” she makes herself say, and he reassures her,

 

 

   “Think no more on't. I shouldn' 've said awt.”

 

 

   “It's not you - you can say what you like, it just - it's not like that. He's just nice, he and his friends, they were nice to me, we were stood by each other, that's all,” she tries to explain, frustrated with her own reaction, and inability to properly put into words why it stung so much to have Davos appear to try and frame it as something.

 

 

   “No, no - I understand, pet. I understand. Forgive an old bugger f' going on. I just like t' see you wi' decent-seeming folk f' a change. Does my old heart good,” Davos rumbles, and she leans over and kisses his cheek.

 

 

   He understands, and they say nothing more for the remainder of the journey.

 

 

   Marya, predictably, has been waiting up for them, and she insists Shireen take a hot shower when she gets in, and that it won't be a bother and that she'll make her a nice cup of tea for bed afterwards, and Shireen agrees and goes along with it because it's gone 4AM but she knows she stinks of a hundred other people sweating and having fun, and she'd quite like to be clean for bed.

 

 

   The hot water dissolves her tears along with the last of her makeup, and she finds herself finally having that panic attack she's been holding back for hours, and then afterwards just feels ashamed at all this carry-on. She's an adult and it's pathetic to be getting this upset over what is essentially nothing, she knows that.

 

 

   It's still nice to be in clean pyjamas and to have Marya come up with the promised cup of tea and braid Shireen's wet hair back while she drinks up, and then to be tucked in and kissed and told she's loved and given wishes that she sleep well. It's something that's only ever happened to her here at Davos and Marya's, and it's wonderful.

 

 

   She's exhausted, so she sleeps instantly and so deeply that she wakes up in the exact position she fell asleep in, aching and sore, but mentally refreshed, at about noon. No one woke her because she has nowhere to be today and they knew that.

 

 

   She takes her time getting dressed and then sits down to brush out her hair properly with the old bristle-brush she keeps here with her other overnight bag toiletries, brushing the long strands down over the bad side of her face so it's hidden, and looking at the other side for a minute.

 

 

   She looks pale and tired.

 

 

   She brushes the rest of her hair in front of her face completely, hiding and relishing the Cousin Itt look of herself in the mirror, even as she dislikes the weird kinks in her hair caused by having it braided un-brushed wet and slept in like that, but when her phone makes a sound she headbangs all her hair back off her face and reaches for what's probably a message from her dad asking if she's coming home today and needs picking up at some point, since they never arranged that yesterday.

 

 

   It's not from her dad.

 

 

   It's from Rickon.

 

 

   It's just a postcode and a question mark, and she stares at it all the way downstairs where there's a lovely note propped up against the kettle telling her to help herself to everything and apologising for leaving her home alone because Davos left for work at ten and Marya's had to quickly run into town to take Stanny his rugby things because he forgot them. There are little x's and o's and a heart after the message and they make Shireen smile, and then she realises why the postcode seems familiar.

 

 

   It's the postcode for this house, this address.

 

 

   She flicks the kettle on, going through the comforting familiarity of making herself a cuppa, not sure how to respond to the text.

 

 

   When her phone rings, she just picks up.

 

 

   “ _I'm so sorry!_ ” Rickon's voice pants over the line, frantic and desperately apologetic,

 

 

   “ _My - HORRIBLE INTERFERING SISTER - thought she recognised the name Rainwood and thought it might be near where she and her lad live, so she took my phone and texted you the postcode - AND I HATE HER AND IT'S UNACCEPTABLE - and I am so sorry, I'll delete the message, I don't even remember what the code was, I'm crap with numbers, and you don't have to tell me if it was right or anything - I am so, so sorry Shireen, now you must really think I'm some kind of stalker or something, **gods** , please don't think that!_”

 

 

   The very loud bits come across slightly muffled as if he's put his hand over the phone or turned away from it to shout at someone not in his immediate vicinity, and they're clearly not for her benefit solely, but they sound very sincere, and even though she's a bit surprised, Shireen _is_ inclined to believe him.

 

 

   “Don't worry about it,” she says quietly,

 

 

   “I know siblings can be difficult.”

 

 

   “ _I've got four_ ,” he laments darkly,

 

 

   “ _And two sort of extra ones to top it all!_ ”

 

 

   “That's unusual,” she replies, stirring her tea and reaching for the biscuit jar, feeling quite absurdly calm, perhaps because he sounds so out of sorts she just feels calm in comparison,

 

 

   “Davos has seven boys though.”

 

 

   “ _I'm sure they're all lovely but I wouldn't wish that on anyone decent and he seemed a brilliant bloke,_ ” Rickon remarks with sympathy, adding,

 

 

   “ _At least my parents have two girls among us - NOT THAT THEY AREN'T TERRIBLE HUMAN BEINGS AND ALL SO IT'S NO FUCKING BETTER REALLY!_ ”

 

 

   “ _I AM A CONSTANT FUCKING DELIGHT RICKON STARK, STOP SHOWING OFF FOR YOUR FANCY WOMAN!_ ” someone screeches in the background on his end rather shrilly, and Rickon mutters a string of unintelligible words Shireen assumes are curses and threats as she herself loses the battle with her giggles, which makes him ask, sounding hopeful now,

 

 

   “ _You're not angry then? I really do promise, I'm not stalking you - I know it looks bad, but -_ ”

 

 

   “I'm not angry and I've seen a lot worse, don't worry - I see worse in the mirror every day,” she tries for reassuring levity, and Rickon is silent for a moment and then, rather quietly, comments,

 

 

   “ _I don't reckon that's right at all; something's amiss with your mirror if it is._ ”

 

 

   “Maybe something's amiss with your eyes,” Shireen says rather sharply, unwilling to be mocked when she was just trying to address the ever-present elephant in the room by using it as a source of fun that she's in on for a change instead of it being brought up by others to make fun _of_ her, as always ends up happening anyway, and Rickon sounds carefully stubborn when he shoots back,

 

 

   “ _Nope, mirror's a bad 'un - 've got perfect vision, I'm an Olympic-level archer._ ”

 

 

   In the background the person who's probably his sister cackles,

 

 

   “ _AND A REALLY SHITTY FLIRT - THAT WASN'T EVEN A PROPER HUMBLEBRAG, WHAT ARE YOU **LIKE** \- _ ” and Shireen can clearly hear Rickon throw something that breaks loudly and then inform someone else,

 

 

   “ _Gendry you **shut her up** or today's the day I bury her in the back garden, I am **not** messing about -!_ ”

 

 

   “Should I be worried that this is how you treat your sisters?” Shireen asks blandly, and Rickon inhales deeply into the phone, making the line crackle.

 

 

   “ _If you **knew** how awful they are, you'd swear up **and** down I was a saint, I'm **so** serious,_ ” he vows, and she can almost see the halo and the sincerity on his face in her mind's eye.

 

 

   “ _IF YOU HATE **ME** SO MUCH WHY NOT GO AND PAY HER A VISIT, THAT HOUSE IS JUST DOWN THE - _ ”

 

 

   Something _else_ is thrown at that background comment, and lands with a _hard_ thump on something soft with a _fwap_ and someone groaning.

 

 

   “ _Pillow to the face at fifty paces - at **my** stride - and **you** think there's something **wrong** with my **vision** ,_” Rickon states in victorious if injured tones, and Shireen bites down firmly on the giggles this time, unsure she should be encouraging violence even if it is only pillows.

 

 

   “Maybe your aim is just very good. And that must be a very _large_ room, unless that _was_ just bragging, and that on top of the violence calls your saintliness into question,” she insists, and Rickon makes a sound to indicate his equanimity in the face of this, replying,

 

 

   “ _I said I was **saintly** , I didn't say I was the **messiah**._ ”

 

 

   “So you're just a very naughty boy then?” she fires back, and is instantly _deeply_ ashamed of herself, having to catch her mug before she spills tea everywhere at her own mad, reaching cheek, but he laughs softly over the line and just says,

 

 

   “ _We all have limitations, Shireen,_ ” and that... makes her feel things she doesn't want to address.

 

 

   So instead she addresses the postcode and address issue.

 

 

   “Well if you get sick of your sister, she's not wrong about that postcode being for this house, so feel free to drop by if you like,” she says flippantly, knowing it's all just safe, good-natured banter,

 

 

   “I'll be here all day and Davos won't mind - he reckoned you were a decent sort and he's a better judge of character than I am, so I'm not too worried you might decide to bury me in the back garden. I don't think we're related, anyway, so I'm probably not at risk.”

 

 

   “ _You are an absolute legend,_ ” Rickon breathes, sounding just delighted, then laughs and warns,

 

 

   “ _I'm going to take you up on that!_ ”

 

 

   “Stalker,” Shireen says at once, grinning despite herself, feeling silly now, and Rickon protests, sounding wounded,

 

 

   “ _You just invited me! And you'd be leading me away from the temptation to commit sororicide!_ ”

 

 

   “Stalking is the lesser evil,” Shireen agrees amiably, and Rickon repeats with a little less surety,

 

 

   “ _You invited me._ ”

 

 

   “You're right, I did,” Shireen accepts, and then because it's all so ridiculous and she knows it's all teasing and banter and shit-shooting and it's not real, she adds,

 

 

   “Tell you what, I'll make you a cup of tea if you do come 'round to dodge that murder. How far away are you?”

 

 

   “ _Arya reckons it's a twenty-minute walk from here_ ,” he replies, sounding dubious, although about the directions or Shireen's offer, she doesn't know, but surely he's aware none of this is real just like she is, so it's probably about the directions.

 

 

   “Oh, that's not far at all,” she remarks, actually surprised. It seems like a weird coincidence, but then again so did the petrol station. Then again, Heavy Metal Fate is no more real than any other kind, so coincidence it is. Bit dull, but that's life.

 

 

   “ _No..._ ” he agrees slowly, and then after a beat asks seriously,

 

 

   “ _You really wouldn't mind? I mean... you'd want me there?_ ”

 

 

   “If you're here you're not elsewhere murdering your sister,” Shireen points out, smiling, and he laughs softly, and then his voice goes quiet and solemn again, with a slightly frustrated edge she doesn't understand when he repeats,

 

 

   “ _But would you want me there? You wouldn't mind?_ ”

 

 

   “Better you than so many others,” she recycles her words from last night, and he hesitates, and Shireen does too, then, because he doesn't laugh when he says,

 

 

   “ _But do you really **mean** it? I won't if you don't **really** mean it._ ”

 

 

   She means that she wouldn't mind him here, but it's not real, is it? None of this.

 

 

   “I'll make another cup of tea, and if you come, you come,” she decides.

 

 

   There is a silence.

 

 

   “ _Shireen, are you serious?_ ” he asks, very, very intently, and Shireen puts her finger into her mug and swirls it around, trying to work out whether she is, whether he is, whether she's just dreaming things again. She promised herself she'd stop last night and it's been going really poorly with that.

 

 

   “I'm serious about making more tea, mine's gone tepid,” she says finally, and there is a sigh on the other end of the line.

 

 

   “ _Okay,_ ” Rickon says, and then again, with a bit more to it,

 

 

   “ _Okay_ ,” and he sounds bright as can be when he finishes,

 

 

   “ _Speak to you soon!_ ” and then he hangs up.

 

 

   Shireen puts down her phone and makes herself another cup of tea. Eats a biscuit.

 

 

   Maybe _he_ was drunk last night and that's why he was so nice to her. Maybe he was still a bit pissed today and that's what this just was. Some people are very eloquent drunks. Mentally impaired, but eloquent. It's likely to be the case here.

 

 

   She eats another biscuit very slowly, and puts the kettle on again, gets out another mug. She'll go through this one quickly, she rationalises, it's less wasted time to just have another one waiting ready so she doesn't have to faff about with the whole process then and have to wait.

 

 

   She makes it like she always does, stirs it about, puts the spoon away, and then almost drops the biscuit she's holding because there's someone tall coming down the driveway towards the house with very long strides, holding a long-stemmed fluffy white flower of some kind.

 

 

   It's Rickon.

 

 

   He stops a few metres away from the kitchen window, waves at her awkwardly, rocks back on his heels, and smiles crookedly, nervously. He looks windswept and handsome and incongruous stood there like that, but he does appear to be real.

 

 

   She opens the kitchen window tentatively.

 

 

   “Hello!” he calls,

 

 

   “You don't have to let me in or anything, if this is too weird, but I promise I'm not here to do any stalking or murdering - that's not my thing at all - and I brought you a flower, even though I know that doesn't prove anything, and I admit I nicked it from the garden next door to Arya's, but I think the old lady who lives there is fine with it, because she likes me a lot and I clean her windows and gutters now and then, so she's sort of a mate anyway by now - are you angry?”

 

 

   “Are you real?” Shireen blurts out, the words just pushing past her defences to spill out of her and the window in a sort of confused, furious flood of repressed emotion, and Rickon looks at her like he doesn't understand what she doesn't understand.

 

 

   “I think so,” he tells her,

 

 

   “I usually am, but I've not checked today.”

 

 

   “Don't _laugh_ at me!” Shireen snaps, angry tears hurting her eyes and making her voice nasty and scratchy, a warning as though she has any way to back it up, and Rickon shakes his head slowly, stepping forward a few paces, and watching her with clear eyes and a furrowed brow, _his_ voice horribly kind and calm when he says,

 

 

   “I'm not. Shireen, I'm _not_. And if you don't want me here, I'll go away, and I'll _never_ speak to you again, not even if we do happen to meet in future at some other gig, but I know that's really unlikely to happen, and _that's_ why I wanted your number, or for you to have mine, because I think you're fun - not as in, _you're_ a _joke_ , but as in, _you_ are fun to _be_ with. So I wanted a way to maybe make it so we could have fun together again at some point, in case you thought I was fun to be around too, because I hoped you might. That's _all_. I'm not laughing at you. That wouldn't be fun for _anyone_ ; it'd just be horrible, and you're not horrible, so it'd be _wrong_.”

 

 

   “You're being very nice and I don't trust it,” Shireen says harshly, and again she feels badly for this inability to trust to good motives and intentions, but at the same time, she knows she's justified. She doesn't actually know what those are supposed to look like, not _really_ , so she can't judge them properly.

 

 

   “That's fair,” Rickon accepts, getting only so close to the window as allows him to reach out and put the pretty white flower near enough for her to snatch from him if she chooses to, telling her,

 

 

   “I brought you this because it's polite to bring a gift for the hostess, but if you don't like it, I suppose you can give it to Davos' missus - she's probably a lovely lady who deserves a nice bloom every now and then. I wanted t' bring you one of the iron roses Gendry makes in his forge - all by hand, they're _so_ clever and _they_ look _really_ real - but there wasn't really time for him to make me one for you specially, and he didn't have any spare lying around. Sorry.”

 

 

   Shireen doesn't snatch the flower, but she does take it rather quickly, dumps the remaining tea in her old mug into the sink, fills it with water quickly, and props the flower up in it and against the wall slightly.

 

 

   “Thank you,” she tells him, feeling completely stupid, and he just smiles.

 

 

   “You're welcome,” he says easily, and she squints at the flower and then pulls some of her hair over her face to hide behind.

 

 

   “I don't think I'm much of a hostess if I just leave you stood outside,” she admits with poor grace, and Rickon shrugs.

 

 

   “Weather's nice. I reckon it still counts. Maybe it just makes you a better one - the window's like a sort of serving hatch, and you've put your guests outside to enjoy the sun here so you can talk to them from the kitchen. Seems really clever. You're a natural.”

 

 

   “I'm a freak,” Shireen mumbles, winding her arms around herself in a pathetic excuse for a hug, and Rickon's easy, teasing smile drops from his face.

 

 

   “You're not,” he says firmly,

 

 

   “Or if you are, you're in good company. Everyone at that gig last night was some kind of freak, even the freak parents there with their freak kids. That crowdsurfing twat-bag was a freak too, he just wasn't a _benign_ sort of freak like the rest of us. If you weren't _you_ the way you come across, I might not like you so much, but you seem _great_ to me. Being _different_ doesn't always mean being _wrong_ or being _worse_ than others who aren't _that_ kind of different and can't relate to it.”

 

 

   “You _would_ say that; you're gorgeous,” Shireen snaps, too far mired in shame already to be any further mortified by being this brutally honest, and Rickon laughs like she told a really great joke.

 

 

   “You should see my brothers,” he tells her with somewhat bitter mirth,

 

 

   “And sisters, too. And I know that's not really the same as what you're talking about, and I can't totally relate on that front, but on others, I _do_ stick out in ways I can't help.”

 

 

   “Like what?” Shireen challenges, even though she feels childish, knows it can't be a contest, that the human experience doesn't work like that, but Rickon doesn't seem to object. He just shrugs again and quietly lays out,

 

 

   “I know a lot about manners and how to behave because it's been drilled into me since I was small, but I'm not good at interaction _beyond_ that, and I don't always realise I'm getting it wrong. Like, I joked with you earlier about murdering my sister, even though I only met you last night and you don't necessarily know I'm not a homicidal maniac and that I would actually gladly die for her if required. I sometimes think I'm _hilarious_ , and _actually_ , I'm really, _really_ not. All my friends you met last night are somehow related to me because I'm _rubbish_ with people who haven't been briefed on how to _handle_ me, so I spend most of my time alone or with my dog. I try _really_ hard, and I'm really nice to everyone until they turn out to be a bastard because I don't want people to think I'm the bad kind of freak like that knob who groped you, and I work really hard to be polite, but a lot of people just... _really_ don't like me, because I'm weird, and I talk too much, and I come on too strong, and I don't even mean to do it, I just try really hard with people and it... puts them off. Or ends up with me being taken advantage of somehow. I know that might be hard to believe because I look like this, but that's how it is. It's not great.”

 

 

   “It doesn't sound great,” Shireen allows carefully, hesitant to give too much, and Rickon smiles sadly.

 

 

   “It's not. I'm sure your thing isn't great either. I might never be able to completely relate to yours, or you to mine, but as far as I can tell, neither of us is a bad person. I'm not the best judge of these things, but it seems that way to me as of this minute, so I'd still really like for you to not hate me or be angry with me for liking you,” he says, and the raw, undemanding honesty of it does seem genuine, if a bit odd, just like all his sincerity and niceness has seemed genuine to her, if a bit odd, so she lets him finish, a little of his brightness returning,

 

 

   “I like your different. You seem nice. I'm sorry if I've botched this by being me, and you can just tell me if I have and I'll leave you alone, but earlier, before it felt like you might not think I _meant_ that I liked you and wanted to talk to you, you seemed like you liked talking to me too, so maybe we could try that again?”

 

 

   “I suppose...” Shireen says in a low, strained voice, and Rickon's eyes fill with concern.

 

 

   “Really? Or do you just feel like you have to say yes so I won't actually murder you, or whatever? You're not just agreeing because you don't feel safe to say no, are you? I don't want that, that's not real and it's not right, so please don't. I really will leave if that's the case,” he swears, twisting his fingers into his sleeves nervously, tense and worried, and Shireen relaxes.

 

 

   “You sound like a seminar on consensual behaviour and emotional intimacy,” she tells him, trying to smile,

 

 

   “Did someone make you go to one of those? Hopefully not the authorities,” and as he stares at her with stunned eyes and the beginnings of a hopeful smile in the corner of his mouth, she adds,

 

 

   “I made you a cup of tea,” and lifts the fresh mug to show him.

 

 

   “Thank you,” he says, like _he_ doesn't quite believe _she's_ real, stepping forward so he can rest his forearm on the window sill,

 

 

   “My mother made me go to one, years ago. Not that it was needed. Why do you know what that sort of thing sounds like?”

 

 

   Shireen slides the biscuit jar closer so it's stood between them next to the mug of tea, and takes one.

 

 

   “My mother went to one, years ago. She took me with her,” she reveals,

 

 

   “Not that it was needed.”

 

 

   She crunches her biscuit as a slow, warm smile spreads across his face, illuminating it and making him look even more handsome, and totally guileless.

 

 

   “You know, having weird parents makes it likelier you'll turn out weird too,” he jokes, and then hesitates, checks,

 

 

   “Was that rude? I'm sorry,” and Shireen laughs.

 

 

   “Not with parents like mine, and you're not wrong!” she tells him, and he grins triumphantly, and snags a biscuit from the jar, dunks it in the tea, and pops it in his mouth, glowing, and she exclaims,

 

 

   “But that was!” and he swallows convulsively at once and clears his throat hard and anxiously asks,

 

 

   “What? Was I not allowed?” and Shireen feels the sting of guilt at having teased like that and reassures him,

 

 

   “No, you were - I'm sorry, I was trying to be funny,” and at his doleful expression she has to check,

 

 

   “Was it really too far? You thought I meant it? I didn't want you to choke to death because I was trying to be funny!”

 

 

   “You were convincing,” he informs her, a bit stiff, like he's not sure he trusts it,

 

 

   “But I forgive you because I know what it's like to try and be funny and have it go really wrong.”

 

 

   She's slightly crestfallen she did get it so wrong, but then he winks at her and in lofty tones says,

 

 

   “Anyway, now I expect you to be cruel, it won't surprise me to the point of choking if it happens again!”

 

 

   “Cruel? _You're_ the biscuit-thief!” she laughs, playing along now that they're both on the same page finally,

 

 

   “I knew you weren't the messiah, but clearly you _are_ a very naughty boy! I'm glad I didn't invite you in!”

 

 

   He does choke a little then, because her timing was poor and he was having a sip of tea to soothe his throat, but he laughs it off so she knows she got it right, and then sets the mug down again so it won't be upset by their antics, and she immediately dunks a fresh biccie in it with a cheeky grin, making him point at her in mock censure and cry,

 

 

   “You're one to talk, tea-nicker! That's the guest mug, you said so yourself - have you no shame, no sense of propriety - what kind of hostess steals tea right out from under their guest's noses?!”

 

 

   In response, Shireen picks up the mug, maintains eye-contact, and takes a long, slow drink.

 

 

   Only when she sets the mug down again does it strike her that it's sort of intimate for them to be sharing it like this, especially when it's not necessary. She could just make another one for herself.

 

 

   Rickon holds her gaze with soft, kind eyes, open and forthright, dancing with mirth and the obvious, _real_ enjoyment of her company.

 

 

   “I suppose I could just invite you in, and then we could each have our own, and there'd be no need for all this carry-on. That would be proper, wouldn't it?” she asks, and her voice sounds pleased and gentle, and so does his, if a little concerned, when he asks,

 

 

   “Because you really want to?”

 

 

   Shireen nods.

 

 

   “Will you please say so?” he requests awkwardly, then bites his lip like he's bracing to be laughed at, and Shireen smiles, but she doesn't laugh. It wouldn't be right.

 

 

   “I'd really like you to come in,” she tells him honestly, as straight-forward as she can be, then whispers, making her eyes big,

 

 

   “Standing like this is really uncomfortable - the counter's digging into my hips!”

 

 

   “Oh,” he says, and his expression is so sweet and real,

 

 

   “Then it'd be rude to refuse, wouldn't it? Ungallant. Unacceptable, really.”

 

 

   “It would,” she agrees.

 

 

   They both move for the front door.

 

 

   “Hello Shireen,” he greets her, when she unlocks and opens it, both smiling brightly,

 

 

   “Sorry I don't have another hostess gift for you - it seems like you should have one, since this feels like a separate visit, but I can always bring you another one another time.”

 

 

   Shireen laughs.

 

 

   “This is fine,” she insists, warm and inviting, and when he glows, she reaches out, and says,

 

 

   “You're fine, Rickon. Come inside, please?”

 

 

   He takes her hand.

 

 

   She doesn't make a separate cup of tea. It doesn't seem important, so she forgets to. They can share just as well as not.

 

 

   At the next gig that comes along that they both want to go to, Shireen wears Rickon's tour shirt from the last one they were at together, the one she had planned to buy a copy of with some of her birthday money, but didn't get a chance to because she left in a panic. She wears his, because they can share just as well as not, even though he bought her one for her next hostess gift after she told him about the missed opportunity. It seems so silly now, she thinks, standing at the barrier, leaning against it, Rickon leaning against her, his arms around her properly.

 

 

   He actually is an Olympic-level archer. Rickon doesn't tell lies, he doesn't believe in there being a point to them, so that was true. He is also musical, as she suspected from the beginning - he's not doing a degree in music like she is, but he does play the drums in a band, and he is a very decent pianist.

 

 

   He is possibly the most genuine person she has ever met, certainly one of the most loyal and kindest, and least judgmental, and she loves him for that, and for all the other weird aspects that make up his personality - the fact that she doesn't have to fret about whether he loves hers and whether it's real or not, because he tells her all the time, and she can see that it is. She might not understand why he feels that way, however eloquent he can be, there are things she just can't grasp about it, but she knows he means it, and that's what matters.

 

 

   She knows what he feels, and what she feels about him, and what she's feeling right now, as they look up at the stage and sway together, _really together_ , and she knows which pocket his phone is in.

 

 

   It's in his jacket.

 

 

   She turns her head to the side and rubs her ugly cheek against the leather of it, feeling the textures clash, breathing in deeply, and he hugs her tighter for a moment, and then leans down and shouts,

 

 

   “ ** _Y'alright love?_** ”

 

 

   It's really real, and happening, and unexpected, and overwhelming, and it makes her smile so much it spills over, into a great big laugh of joy, and she raises both her hands in the air and throws the horns, and Rickon laughs fit to rattle her spine and leans over her, and kisses her right there in the sight of God, the world, and Rob fucking Halford.

 

 

   Heavy Metal Fate, it is.

 

 

   -

 

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift in spirit if not letter for FrozenSnares, the backbone of the Rickeen fandom, whose tireless efforts and limitless enthusiasm for this much-neglected rarepair has sparked the beginning of an annual ShipWeek, the concept of Hallow(Rick!)een, and more content for this fandom than anyone else to date.
> 
> She also recently lost a band I know were very dear to her, and so I know she'll appreciate and understand me dedicating this fic, which is basically a love-letter, to one of my own very favourite bands, the great Saxon, who have been in my life since before I was born and who have saved me countless times - from boredom, from the noise in my own head, and from the voices outside it that would have me believe being a freak is inherently a bad thing even if you are absolutely a good person who treats others with respect and understanding even when you can't relate to them personally - and who sadly do not get the credit they deserve for all their achievements.
> 
> FrozenSnares, I am sorry for your loss. I am grateful for your encouragement and friendship. I am glad you exist. Consider this a hostess gift, fair captain of this good ship. I may be late to the table because I'm deathly ill, but it's not contagious, I brought inappropriate jokes, and I'll replace anything I break.
> 
> To everyone else in this rarepair fandom - lovely to see you, thrilled you're here, please go and tell FrozenSnares how pleased you are that she's keeping this fandom alive, and remember that my rule on everything I post getting at least three reviews before I update or post anything else still stands - I am really very unwell, and you may be sick of hearing about it, but I assure you I am sick of having it, and it's not going to go away, it's only going to get worse, so until some miracle occurs, the rule stands, so please go forth and review things so I can get back to writing myself into an early grave out of sheer enthusiasm for all YOUR enthusiasm!


End file.
